


A life with no love, is no life at all

by merethengilith



Series: Mary writes all the hobbit AUs [2]
Category: Ever After (1998), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Baby Fíli and Kíli, Baby Tauriel, EVERYONE'S HUMAN, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, Multi, Shut up I'm in denial, Thorin's a bit of a softie on the inside, adorable ones, and his unfortunate resting bitchface, and vague dislike, baby bardlings, but definitely little shits, fairy tale AU, genderbend au, once you get past his five layers of awkwardness, pretty much i mean that was the whole point of ever after, the fact there werent any supernatural beings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3721660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merethengilith/pseuds/merethengilith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever After (Cinderella) Bagginshield AU.</p><p>“Once upon a time, there lived a girl who loved her father very much. Her name was Bilbo. And this, gentlemen, was her glass slipper.” Frodo held up the glass and silver shoe, well in view of the Gondorian steward’s sons. </p><p>“So it’s true? The tale of the little cinder girl is true?” Boromir nearly slid out of his seat, hand reaching for the slipper.</p><p>“No, I must confess the tale was bastardised by all and many and her life became a fairytale. You see, there are no such things as faerie godmothers… but there are irritating artists and philosophers who are never early nor late, but arrive precisely when they mean to. Now, shall I continue my tale?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover image

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, if any of you have read my other fanfics, be it here or on fanfic.net, I do apologise but they weren't kidding when they said senior years would be a bitch. I am working on updating all my fics and working off my writers' block with this fluffy little thing and because I absolutely adore the film Ever After. I promise, I will honestly try to update as frequently as I can, and this fic won't be too long, hopefully.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick edit I did.

 


	2. Part 1: There once lived a girl

_Rivendell, 1854._

_“Once upon a time, there lived a girl who loved her father very much. Her name was Bilbo. And this, gentlemen, was her glass slipper.”_ _Frodo held up the glass and silver shoe, well in view of the Gondorian steward’s sons._

_“So it’s true? The tale of the little cinder girl is true?” Boromir nearly slid out of his seat, hand reaching for the slipper._

_“No, I must confess the tale was bastardised by all and many and her life became a fairytale. You see, there are no such things as faerie godmothers… but there are irritating artists and philosophers who are never early nor late, but arrive precisely when they mean to. Now, shall I continue my tale?”_

* * *

_The Shire, Province of the Great and Noble Kingdom of Erebor, 1499_

The happiest she’d ever been? The single-most happy memory? Unfortunately for Bilbo, there was no such thing in recent memory. Not since her father, Bungo had died. She could no longer remember her mother’s face, she’d been ever-so young when Belladonna had died and every golden day of her childhood seemed to compress into a single day.

The start of the day began with her now faceless mother scooping her into her arms, asking if she remembered those fireworks the night before. There seemed an infinitum of picnics and games of conkers in between and numerous wrestling matches with the fauntlings of the manor households’ children (she thoroughly whipped Drogo)or her father reading to her of books of philosophy and science and the end of it heralded by a whip of her skirts as she ran under the falling leaves of the oak trees to her dying father.

Bungo lay on the stony pavement, his trusty stallion standing faithfully beside his master. With a final breath he reassured Bilbo of his love for her, and apologised for leaving her.

Baroness Donnamira Sackvillle was most upset.

That was all she remembered.

She could never recall exactly when it happened but she remembered her step-sisters Lobelia tossing her mother’s things into her arms and Primula quietly apologising as she was moved into the attic above the stable. She remembered Rosa and Bell and Esmerelda promising to keep her mother’s wedding dress safe and that she would always be loved.

She told herself that she was a proper lady now, albeit one that worked the farm land with farmer Cotton and Hamfast and Saradoc. Her wrestling matches and her adventures and fireworks were thoroughly forgotten and considered remnants of a past life she had once been privileged to have.

Perhaps it was a terrible idea to have been good at conkers and throw that apple at the crown prince.

In her own defence, she had no idea.

* * *

Thorin could hear his family approaching faster and faster, if he didn’t hurry, he would be forced into that horrible and unthinkable institution.

A forced marriage with the daughter of some far-off realm he’d never even heard of.

Or at least, he would have heard of if he hadn’t been so adamant in his refusal.

It’s not like he was adverse to the idea of being king exactly, it was the idea of being forced into a loveless marriage with a woman who was quite possibly inept at such a task and would he truly want his child (or children, he was open to the idea) to watch his parents proclaim their utter hatred for each other?

Dìs was lucky, she was free to marry her love and was a loving mother to two hellions he was forced to call nephews. Frerin was out of succession as the youngest and perhaps it was just as well considered his tastes in love were considered unorthodox (men, he was talking about men).

No doubt it was either Fìli or Kìli who had awoken in the middle of the night in order to find him, and had seen him running out of the royal chambers. And he was willing to bet the kingdom that it was those two insufferable ingrates (he did love them…) that had informed their great-grandfather.

It was at least dawn when his horse Minty had lost a shoe. While he may have been trained in making horse shoes and aware of how to shoe a horse, the middle of a farm was certainly the least appropriate time to even attempt to particularly if Dwalin, Captain of the Guard, was on his trail. As his oldest friend, Dwalin knew Thorin well. He knew exactly what paths he would take to escape to Erid Luin. That reason was precisely why he’d taken as many unknown tracks and even cutting across country to get to where he was now.

This farm seemed wonderfully tended in the early morning light, wood smoke from a smoker drifted through the trees and gave an almost dream-like haze to the already misty morning.

It was a terrible decision, perhaps the worst he’d made in retrospect. Stealing that horse was most _definitely_ the worst choice he’d ever made especially when an apple came flying at his head.

* * *

“You thief! Low-lying scum! How _dare_ you steal my father’s horse-“ Bilbo’s apple hit the mark, knocking the tall rider from his horse. It was well-worth the sight, seeing the man spit with indignant rage as he most unceremoniously landed on his arse; legs over head. She continued pelting apples with her scathing remarks punctuating each apple.

“Madam, I said enough!” The rider drew himself to his full height, doffing off his blue and silver hood. Anyone in Erebor knew that aquiline nose and those piercing blue eyes, even a country-girl such as Bilbo.

She was an idiot and most definitely going to die.

“I’m sorry your highness… Prince Thorin I did not recognise you and for that I know I must die.”

“Oh…” The insufferable git had the most heavenly voice and in her opinion that was simply _not_ allowed. “Well um…”

“We have other horses, faster ones if you wish.” In the distance the sound of galloping could be heard, she was confused, usually the guard didn’t ride out to the Shire until later in the day.

“Speak of this to no one and I shall buy your silence. Here, twenty gold coins.” The prince removed a pouch from his belt, tossing it to her where she had crouched down to the ground in complete shock and mortification.

“You are too kind, your highness.” Bilbo resisted from looking up any further at the prince as he mounted the horse. “That horse’s name is Myrtle.”

“Thank you, but I only wish to be free of my gilded cage.” She rolled her eyes at that, typical rebellious royal. Not that she’d met any others, but it was just a bit typical. With a shout, he galloped off at a blistering pace, leaving her to collect her fallen and bruised apples.

It was with some reluctance that Bilbo gathered up her skirts and walked back briskly to the manor. Bag End manor had over the years under Baroness Donnamira’s care- well care as the politest word for it- had become much changed and many of her family’s old belongings had begun to vanish long ago.

She supposed the Baroness never liked her because she was the last person Bungo had ever talked to, or perhaps it was because she was not as pretty as Lobelia or Primula. Not that she cared, there were more important things to tend to.

For the last ten years she’d found herself becoming stronger as she tended to bees or sowed crops. Hamfast had been nice enough to let her chop some firewood once, but it was a short-lived experience as she nearly took off Ham’s arm with her swings.

But speaking of Ham, the prince’s gold was _exactly_ what she was going to use to save him.

“Bell! Bell, you would not _believe_ what just happened!” Bilbo emptied her gathered skirt into a bowl, picking up apples that had fallen from her skirt to the floor.

“Ooh, the mistress is in one of her moods, miss.” Bell warned as Esmerelda placed plates of food into Bilbo’s arms, ready for the family upstairs. “Child, where on earth did you get those!?” Bell held up the heavy velvet pouch.

“An angel of mercy! Though to be fair, a rather sour-faced one.” she laughed, practically skipping up the stairs. Her smile however faded, as she viewed the sour expression upon the Baroness and Lobelia’s faces. Primula was not too unlikeable, she thought of it as this:

If she were to fall from the roof of the manor and grievously injure herself, the servants and workers would most definitely worry, Primula _might_ worry and as for the Baroness and her eldest daughter? Well, they’d probably try and speed up her death.

“Good morning Baroness, Lobelia, Primula.”

“Hello.” Primula gave a small, genuine smile before her mother reprimanded her.

“Someone’s been reading in the fireplace again, if you insist on looking like a pig, why don’t you just live with them Cindersoot?” Lobelia sniped, taking an egg from her plate and sighing. Bilbo held back the urge to call Lobelia the fattest pig in Bag End.

“Oh child, come here.” Donnamira took her by the hand, holding her out at arm’s length and appraising her. “There is a roughness about you, tell me, what do you want?”

“ _I_ want the prince but he’s getting married off to some cow they have the nerve to call a princess.” Lobelia scoffed, tossing her black curls. Primula rolled her eyes and silently pleaded to her mother.

“Lobelia dear, nothing is final until you’re dead. And even then I’m _sure_ God negotiates.” She turned back to face Bilbo. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much, after all I’m rather content with my situation.” She gave a small curtsey. Of course, there was not an inkling of truth in what she’d just said, but if she could possible bring back Hamfast, it was worth the shot. “Perhaps if we brought back Hamfast-“

“Nonsense child, there will be no talk of servants returning. Now run along and go back to your chores. After all I have done, and all I have given, it’s never enough!” she huffed at her daughters as Bilbo swept from the room. She was hoping Drogo wasn’t too occupied, she had a plan to execute.

* * *

“My work!” An old man donned in a grey cloak exclaimed in anger as his carriage was pilfered by thieves. Thorin stopped in his tracks, the sound of Dwalin and the rest of the company getting louder. “Please sir, it’s a matter of life and death! It’s my life’s works!”

He supposed he was well and truly at cross-roads. By legally free and live each day with the crippling guilt that he hadn’t stopped to help a defenceless old man or live as a prisoner in his own house but be happy and feel warm and fuzzy at the fact he was caught only because of his gallantry and nobility.

Well, the latter seemed a better option for his immortal soul. So with a heavy heart and an irritated shout, he chased the thief on his stolen horse, ducking low under passing branches. The slope began to decline and he hadn’t noticed that he’d sent himself and the thief plummeting off a cliff into Long Lake. That thief, he knew his face and recognised him to be a bastard of Azog’s and undoubtedly a member of one of his many gangs.

Thorin managed to grab a cylindrical container from the thief and waded back to the shore where several guards waited for him.

“Dori, Nori, I’m not surprised.” Thorin greeted the pair, the latter seemed exasperated at the events and the former fussing over him and throwing his cape as a substitute towel.

“Dear, dear your highness. Imagine if you caught a cold, terrible thing for a prince to have a fortnight before his engagement.” He ignored the comment, tossing his hair forward to let it dry.

“Aye, I hear it puts a damper on nocturnal activities.” Thorin stood straight, recognising the addition of Bofur to the group.

“Bofur, was that _really_ necessary?“

“Now, I’d hate to see Dwalin this pissed in the morning. Spent a good couple of minutes reassuring your nephews that he wouldn’t have you eaten by dragons or the like on the road.” Bofur continued on, sexual innuendoes being his main form of a morning greeting. “Only reason why you got a decent head start.” He pushed past the guards, walking up the hilly slope to the road where Gloin and Bifur were assisting in rounding up the rest of the thieves. Oin tended to the cuts on the old man’s forehead while Ori hastily wrote down a report on the event.

“Your highness, you remarkable lad!” the old man stood up to his full height, taking the tube from him.

“If I may ask, what is it I fetched for you? You said it was a matter of life and death.”

“Stubborn one, aren’t you?” The old man grumbled. “A woman my lord, is always a matter of life and death. Especially if she is the one dealing you the killing blow for insulting her capabilities.” He added after a pause, unfurling a canvas painting.

“She smiles sir, mocking me as if she knows something I don’t.” Thorin muttered darkly.

“Ah, the Lady Galadriel always does, it was an honour to paint her.”

“Gandalf here, has been summoned to Thror’s palace as the court’s painter for the next month or so.” Dwalin informed after giving him a sound cuff to the back of his head. “Don’t try that stunt again boy, unless you want to be hung by your ears from the ramparts.”

“You… you’re the so-called grey wizard?”

“The very same. I’m only second choice, Saruman’s stuck under some ceiling in Isengard, so here I am.”

“Your presence, Tharkûn cannot come at a better time. I must have you plead with my grandfather, the king. He is the king of the dark ages, but perchance you can talk him into the 16th century, after all, the engagement is to be announced on the feast of St Durin.” It was not a request as much, more a demand for the greater good.

“I do not understand what could be so distressing, Thorin son of Thrain… my good man, please explain.”

“This idiot here, Gandalf, suffers the burden of an arranged marriage.” Dwalin grumbled, folding his arms as if to intimidate the old man. Gandalf stood, towering over everyone, including Thorin himself (which was no mean feat considering his siblings often called him a lanky beanpole), muttering about how unlikeable they were. “I’m afraid _sire_ , that we will have to escort you back to the palace.”

“Aye, just allow me to return this horse first.”

* * *

“It’s not going to work, Drogo.” Bilbo protested, tossing off her chemise, looking for her fine linen one. The only one she’d managed to smuggle out of the Baronesses’ sight.

“Of course it will. This isn’t one of your childhood adventures, Bilbo, you’re not looking for elves or faeries or magical kingdoms. Hamfast’s life depends upon it. But you _are_ aware that the punishment for servants who dress above their station is five days in the stocks? Five whole days! The Baroness might sell off Bag End in that time.”

“Well, it’s I either give her these coins and she squanders them on those spoiled cows she calls daughters, or I use them to save Hamfast from being shipped off to Mordor. Now…” she took a deep breath, finishing the final laces on the bodice. “Don’t you _dare_ laugh…”

“Aww, look at our dear Bilbo… you look just like a lady!” Drogo stopped mixing his pestle and motar, placing it upon the table. “We’re going to need Esmerelda to fix your hair.”

“But I’m not a courtier, I’m a Baggins of Bag End-“

“Which makes you worthier than any of them. Just remember, have faith, have courage-“

“And if all else fails hitch up your skirts and run.” Bilbo finished the advice her mother had frequently given. “The shoes _are_ a bit too big.”

“No one will be looking at your feet. Now, away with you!” he pushed her out the door, laughing.

In a sudden blur, she found herself at the gates of Erebor’s palace, praying to God to give her strength.

What angered her most was the way they had been handled, thrown into a cage mean for transporting cattle and shackled like a murderer.

“I command you to release this man!” She gave the most imperious tone she could muster, aware that her short stature certainly wasn’t helping.

“I don’t have time for this.” The man (if he could be called that) gave the most disconcerting cough, spluttering and clutching at his throat.

“I have twenty gold pieces and I am here to pay this man’s debt.” She pointed boldly at Hamfast, who simply couldn’t believe his eyes. “Do you think it right to chain these men up like chattel? Release him or I shall bring this matter to the king.” She calmly threatened, though hoping it wouldn’t have to go that far, after all, she _was_ only a commoner.

“Get out of my _way!”_ The man looked as though he was about to strike her when a regal voice stopped him.

“Smeagol, you would dare strike a lady?” She recognised the tone from the previous morning, and praying that she wouldn’t betray her fear, she turned and gave a deep curtsey.

“She wants a prisoner, but he has already been paid for.”

“Well, my lady. I bid you speak, convince me why you want this man to be released.” The prince appeared not to recognise her, so she took her chance; taking a deep breath she stepped forward.

“If you suffer your people to be ill-educated and their manners corrupted from infancy, then punish them for crimes to which their first education disposed the, what else is to be concluded, sire, that you first make thieves then punish them?” Bilbo knew practically every word from Utopia by heart, after all it was the final book her father had given.

“Well, there you have it. Release the man.” The prince tilted his head to the side in acknowledgement of her answer, his stormy brows calmer than they had been that morning and now instead knit together in consideration. In fact, if she was being honest with herself, he was quite handsome to look at from her angle.

Or perhaps she was just too grateful for his mercy.

“Sire-“

“I _said_ \- release him.” His temper flared up for a moment before he exhaled, pinching his nose bridge. Making the mental note _never_ to cross him again, she curtsied and thanked him, ushering Hamfast away from the carriage and bidding him to meet her at the bridge.

She thought she’d gotten away with it, if she was being honest, right up until the insufferable prince caught up with her.

“For a lady, I must admit those shoes of yours a rather big.” Ah, there it was, her itching madness to slap the prince in the face. However, there was a likelihood that she would cut her hand on his nose first, rather than do any damage.

“I couldn’t find my usual ones.”

“So, you’re forgetful but can apparently quote Utopia as if it were nothing.”

“The prince has read Utopia?” She turned to face him, having to look up at his face, finding him in earnest.

“Aye, I found it optimistic of the possibilities we could be as a species, but we all well know it is not in our nature to be that kind.” She was almost about to contradict him, and protest his handing to her of coins, however that would have merely given the ruse up.

“Well, I am afraid I must get going-“ she tried to flee, however he grabbed her hands in his own, forcing her to face him.

“Your name, I _must_ have your name.”

“But I have none to give-“

“I  swore I knew every noble in this province of Erebor, yet I have never seen your face at court-“

“I prefer the company of books, and my arm chair, and my garden, sire.” She hastily answered, willing with all her being that he would let go.

“Well, who are you staying with, perhaps I could ask them for your name.”

“My cousin. The only one I have.” She answered, eyes widening in terror as she spotted his sister, the princess Dìs approaching.

“Am I to believe you find me arrogant?” he seemed irritated now, crossing his arms and puffing slightly.

“Yes and… no my lord, I’m afraid my lord, the only name I can impart is that of the… Countess Belladonna of Tookborough.” And with his curiosity piqued and being forced to answer his sister, she ran like the devil himself was at her heels.


	3. Part 2: The Antiquated Structure of Arranged Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favourite precious dwarflings are adorable (well, you'd expect them to seeing as they're only seven and four-and-a-half) and apparently believe that they're *totally* capable of setting up their favourite uncle with someone he just saved from drowning, Thorin's internally wax poetic, Bilbo honestly just wants some peace and quiet in her life and Gandalf nearly kills everyone (because he's Gandalf and apparently the laws of physics and the moral law and etiquette don't apply to him).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so here's the next update, but seeing as I go back to school on Monday, updates may be a bit slower. Thanks for all the lovely comments and and kudoses, well, I won't keep you all waiting for too long. Enjoy the fluff... for now...
> 
> Oh also, before I forget, Erebor and the rest of middle earth are sort of like a European country, which is pretty feasible to imagine given the fact it's a renaissance au and a lot of countries don't exist yet (or will, once the states all join and whatever, anyway...). So just putting that out there so Dain's wife and other people mentioned later will make sense.

_Rivendell, 1854_

_“What were the words of the immortal Shakespeare? The course of true love never did run smooth.”_

_“Unless you’re my brother and his wife.” Boromir muttered under his breath._

_“Please, Master Frodo, do continue with your tale.” Faramir gestured with his hands, and Frodo continued._

* * *

“Grandfather would like a word with you, Thorin.” Dìs warned, cradling her youngest son in her arms asleep, the elder running from behind her skirts and grabbing Thorin’s leg.

“Uncle!” Fìli chirped happily, gigging as Thorin ruffled his golden hair affectionately.

“Of course, lead the way sister dearest.” He rolled his eyes before realising he’d left the Countess Belladonna of Tookborough on her own. Yet when he’d turned to address her, she seemed to have mysteriously vanished. Shrugging, and vowing to hunt her down for a conversation or perhaps a spot of tea, he made his way to Thror’s chambers, dreading every step.

“Oho! There he is! Thought he’d finally grace us with his presence!” he rolled his eyes, being embraced by his cousin.

“Lord Dain, I was unaware that you would be arriving today. I would have assumed you would have sent a message, even if it had to have been tied upon a raven.” He gave a tight smile, noticing Thror’s snarling form.

“Oh you know me, I only send ravens when war is imminent- which I hear _you_ are trying to prevent. A marriage to a princess of Moria, well lad…you could have done worse.” Dain added truthfully with a grimace and Thorin stopped himself from running himself through with a blunt sword. Perhaps Dwalin would be so kind as to chop off his head for him.

“You, sir are restricted to the grounds.” Thror began as calmly as possible, hunching over his coins, thrusting a sausage-like finger at him.

“What, as if I’m under some form of house arrest?”

“ _Thorin_ …” Dìs warned, pointing to her children. He made the note of using as friendly language as possible.

“Do not mock me, _boy_ \- I will have my way.”

“Or what? You’ll send me to Mordor like some criminal? Is it not enough that I wish to be a fair ruler after you. I _intend_ to make the most of my throne, but must you also have your marriage?”

“Damnation, Thorin! Your brother cannot provide me grandchildren given his occupation with men and I would like a granddaughter to spoil! Furthermore you _know_ it is expected of you, especially at your age. You are what now, Twenty-seven? You’re positively ancient! At your age I’d already had your father, God rest his soul-”

“So you will have me marry for what? A contract? To keep your precious gold safe? I will not be like you, this is my life.”

“You were born to privilege, Thorin, with that comes responsibility-“ Dìs tried placating.

“Well if you’ll excuse me, sister dearest, an arranged marriage never made anyone in this room very happy!” he snapped, nudging Fìli to his mother has he began to whimper from the raised and heated voices. Dain stared pointedly at the floor, considering his tattered marriage with Giovanna of Sicily.

“You will marry Tova on the first day of new years’- St Durin’s day- or I will strike at you.”

“Would you like me to set the rack up? I’m sure Dwalin’s free.” Thorin replied in a sardonic tone, Dain and Dìs both supressing a laugh.

“I will simply deny you the crown and… live forever!” Thror exclaimed, though faltering at the last moment.

“You wouldn’t…” his voice dipped low, Dìs made a warning face, knowing that it could not possibly bode well for anyone in the room.

* * *

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS!? TO _ME_ , TO LOBELIA!? WHY IT’S POSITIVELY _SICK_ -“ A scarf was thrown at Bilbo with such ferociousness that she was almost surprised that it didn’t choke her to death. It did however, force her into a saggy armchair.

“Madame, I must admit, I haven’t the _foggiest_ on what you’re going on about…” Bilbo admitted

“It is complete and _utter_ deceitfulness and I will _not_ have it in this house. Why! You turn out more and more like your mother every day, always running off to godforsaken places and never thinking-“

“Think _really_ hard Bilbo…” Lobelia taunted, her pug-like nose shrivelling as if she’d just smelled the foulest scent known to mankind.

“The orchard this morning…I knocked the prince of his horse…” she answered sheepishly, the thought of it still making her insides do a perverse jig.

“ _Yes_! How could do this! Have the prince all turn up without a single warning… even country bumpkins like you in my day knew that you’d _inform_ the mistress of the house.”

“I _am_ the mistress of the house, you just inhabit it.” Bilbo murmured under her breath, realising that the Baroness Donnamira’s rant merely overpowered her snark.

“-Fortunately for you, Lobelia had _quite_ the performance. She rather charmed the prince.”

“Oh yes, I won’t be surprised if he visits again! Perhaps with a proposal. Oh imagine him and his heavenly voice, asking me to be his wife. Oh, I shall make a rather wonderful princess!” with that, her step-sister skipped out of the room, trailing her feathered shawl behind her.

“He said you were forceful.” Bilbo gulped, hating that insufferable prince even more for mentioning her. “Tell me, what did you say-“

“I called him a thief…” she admitted.

“Oh, Bilbo! Your poor country girl.” She embraced her rather awkwardly, somehow managing not to have an inch of her dress touch Bilbo. “You must work extra hard to clean Bag End, can’t have his highness’ delicious posterior on a dirty chair now, can we?”

“No madam, though I doubt delicious is the right word-“ the image of his legs flying over his head came to mind and she internally corrected ‘delicious’ to ‘downright sinful’.

“Oh you know nothing of men, Bilbo. That right there was a fine specimen- Hamfast Gamgee what are you doing here? I thought you were sold off to Mordor?” Bilbo hoped that Hamfast had his wits about him.

“I have paid of your- begging your pardon- _my_ debt ma’am.”

“Oh. Go buttle off or some such.” With a wave of her hand, the household were dismissed and Bilbo was free to recount the entire story to Bell.

* * *

“I’m sorry Thorin, who?” Thorin usually enjoyed his tea with his family, however given the situation it was too early and too many impressionable ears around to allow him to open up a good tankard of ale.

“Countess Belladonna of Tookborough.” Thorin repeated, looking beseechingly at Vìli, if there was ever a man who knew all the women at court, it would surely be him.

“While I’m flattered that you’d think I’d know all the women in court, but being the most sought after tailor doesn’t _mean_ that I know her. Perhaps she’s one of _those_ ladies.” He answered thoughtfully.

“You mean of the female persuasion? Then I’d have heard of her through the walls of Erebor.” Frerin winked, taking a carefully measured sip of tea. “Or perhaps she was educated elsewhere. Rivendell I hear; is rather fashionable with young ladies, especially if she’s spewing philoso-babble at you. Was she young enough to have still been in the schoolroom? Come now brother, we can’t have you stealing babies from cradles. Perhaps she’s really some boy who hasn’t been breeched yet-“

“Frerin, _children_.” Dìs pointed to Kìli casually dribbling over Thorin’s doublet. “Or on the bright side, perhaps because she is so young, her parents must have died recently and she could have been in mourning this whole time. Perhaps this was her first excursion to court. I missed her, however when the debutantes where introduced…” Thorin breathed with relief, at least one of them was thinking clearly.

“Check with that spymaster, Nori, from the royal guard. Perhaps he can get a scoop.” Vìli suggested in an even tone. Nori, unfortunately for Vìli, was the exact reason why Vìli and Dìs’ elopement became known to Thror. “Well, did you at least get who the cousin was?”

“No, I’m afraid she just mentioned ‘a’ cousin. How is it possible, I’d have thought between all of us, we’d have been able to single her out…” He huffed in frustration, draining the scalding chamomile tea all in one go (bless Dori’s pastry-making heart).

“In honour of Tharkûn’s arrival, I have been assisted by Balin to strike a compromise.” It was _so_ like his grandfather, not even bothering to announce himself, just appearing.

That was _also_ how Thror found out Dìs and Vìli were eloping. No, not mid-discussion… right in the middle of a heated encounter.

“Balin?” Thorin could kiss the old teacher (now Royal Advisor) if he were in the room.

“If love is what you seek, then you will find it before the St Durin’s Day masked ball. At the stroke of midnight you will announce your bride, or I shall announce it to be Tova of Moria. Are we to an agreement?”

“And what of your treaty?” It was almost too good, he could _sense_ the trap.

“I’ll deal with Moria, _you_ have bigger problems.”

* * *

“What’s wrong with this one?” Bilbo hid herself behind the doorframe, waiting for the perfect moment to enter the room. For the last ten minutes, the Baroness and her daughters had been squabbling over new clothing. Primula had been enthusiastic for a while, until Donnamira began to ignore her in favour of her eldest.

“It’s blue!” Lobelia was hysterical, one more grievance and her fat little head may simply pop off her shoulders.

“Thorin _loves_ blue!” Donnamira protested.

“And so five million other girls will be wearing it!” and with that remark she tossed herself onto the bed.

“Well, perhaps if you told me what you wanted, pumpkin, we could come to an arrangement. You know, I had it from an inside source that he will be playing tennis tomorrow. Not every girl has that opportunity, you simply _must_ use it to your advantage.”

“I want something fit for a queen!”

“Well then, if it’s an intrigue you want, it’s an intrigue you shall get!”

“Ooh, love a good intrigue.” Bilbo followed them silently as they took the communicating door into the abandoned room that was once Bilbo’s, but now used to store gowns.

“Waste not, want not.” The Baroness said primly, lifting the lid of the trunk.

She knew that trunk well, as a child she’d often slip on those glass slippers and dance about, pretending to be her mother dancing with king of Rohan himself. After all, that was how Bungo met her mother, wasn’t it? Whisking her away from underneath the nose of some fabulously wealthy king?

Belladonna travelled a lot. And Bilbo was scared, that if the prince enquired outside of the kingdom, they would learn that her mother had long since passed on. And that the girl he was dealing with was merely a pauper.

“It was meant to be Bilbo’s dowry-“

“Cinderella? Soot and ashes dancing around on her wedding day? Please, she won’t even dance barefoot at mine. I doubt she’ll be allowed into the palace.” Lobelia sniffed. Primula held up the glass slippers with reverence.

“But if these are Bilbo’s shouldn’t we at _least_ let them be? I mean, perhaps _she_ will want to wear it to the ball, after all, the invitation _did_ say ‘to all the ladies of the household’-”

“Bilbo? At a ball? I won’t have any of that nonsense, Primula. After all, you’re only there for the food.”

“Oh, how exquisite! It’s even better than any I’d seen before! I simply _must_ have it.”

“Have _what_ , Lobelia?” Bilbo put on her most innocent face, hiding her simmering anger as best as she could. “What are you doing with my mother’s gown?”

“We were just airing it.” Donnamira replied.

‘ _Airing it my arse.’_ Bilbo thought. “Well, seeing that it’s efficiently aired, perhaps you would be so kind as to return it to my trunk. After all, it is my dowry-“

“Well, then, after all the gown is practically an antique, no one in Erebor wears these sort of dresses now.” She noticed the miniscule twitch of the baroness’ mouth as she feigned gingerly dropping the gown back into the trunk. “Perhaps _you_ should wear it to the ball. After all, nothing would make me happier than seeing us as one big happy family! As long as you mind your manners and finish your chores on time, bake an extra serving of pie or two-“

“But you just said! Oh!” Primula stomped out of the room, dropping the slippers into the trunk on her way out.

“I will be delighted…” she honestly couldn’t give a single fuck about going to that ball.

* * *

“It is _my_ birthright, I deserve to take the throne and have what is mine! And I shall _not_ have my grandfather stand in the way, purely because he wants me to inflict my character upon some innocent child who has yet to be born.”

“Oh, lighten up, Thorin.” Gandalf muttered, continuing to putter about with his firework. “Now, I’m not entirely sure if this will even work in daylight, but it _is_ a rather special one, perhaps it will cheer you up-“

“-I mean, if some poor child were to have me as their father, they’d probably desire nothing more than to pitch themselves off the highest tower of the palace. Father did a _wonderful_ job, becoming insensate then losing himself.” He remarked bitterly throwing a rock, not even skipping it across the water’s calm surface.

“Your father loved you, Thorin and it’s about time you found a wife, that way the whole of the court won’t have to deal with your delayed youth angsting. It isn’t healthy for your nephews to see how pathetic you are at handling an impending marriage-“

“You’re just like them.” Thorin spat “‘Pathetic’ is the nicest of the insults Thror hands me. Anyway, as long as those two aren’t giving you much grief, then there’s not much to be done on my part.”

“No, your two nephews are fine.” Thorin smiled fondly at the two boys, playing with toy boats that Gandalf had given them. He wasn’t sure what possessed Dìs to become diplomatic all of a sudden and ride all the way to fucking _Gondor_ , but here he was, being given the boys for babysitting duty. “Charming lads really, if not a bit mischievous.”

Dwalin had all but threatened to kill him, should he hand him the princes.

“Now, time to see if this works, Thorin if you could hold the boys back.” Thorin nodded ushering the boys to his side, Kìli insisting that he be held in his uncle’s arms. With no small amount of courage, Gandalf lit the gargantuan firework, watching as it soared into the air. For a while it seemed as if nothing happened, that was until a large, fiery figure came shooting towards them.

“Fìli, Kìli… duck…” Thorin said softly.

“Unca?” Kìli’s puppy eyes met his, Fìli shook his wild golden hair in confusion

“Duck… NOW!” He and the boys landed on their bellies in the gravel, watching as what appeared to be a red dragon made of flame descend upon the lake, hovering over the surface. He and the boys enjoyed the spectacle, despite his unceremonious landing and the hair that went flying into his mouth, until he heard a scream.

“Boys, stay here!” Thorin doffed off his heavy coat and shirt, running to the shore line and wading in as quickly as he could, before taking long strokes to the poor, flailing woman. “Countess!” He hoped his channelled his voice into something regal and deep rather than high-pitched in surprise, or as Frerin liked to call his voice ‘the-reason-why-most-men-aren’t-sleeping-with-me-because-they-have-fantasies-about-your-voice’.

“Oh, your highness!” he watched as her eye line flickered from his eyes to his bare chest and back to his eyes. Pulling her as close and tight as he dared, he swum back to the shore, trying to ignore how soft she was… or how her gown was now clinging tightly to her curves and that the fabric had become translucent in some places- perhaps it was better to focus on how cold she was. Once the water had become much shallower, he scooped her up, only placing her down once he’d set foot upon it.

“Oh th-thank you that wasn’t necessary- oh!” her legs gave way for a moment, a hand instinctively flying to his neck. “Right well… oh good lord are those real?” he bit back a laugh, the countess apparently unaware she’d thought aloud as her hand brushed past his arm.

“Uncle!” he thanked Fìli for having an unfortunate sense in timing and deciding to break the ice,

“Oh, these are your nephews? It is an honour to meet you, your highnesses.” She held herself up, a sunny smile breaking through her shy exterior, and dropped a deep curtsey. Fìli, with all the smoothness of his father, struggled (but somehow managed) to place Thorin’s heavy coat over the shivering girl. “Well… that was rather princely of you I suppose…”

“Fìli.” Fìli introduced, Thorin willed that his oncoming migraine from his nephews would cease.

“And Kìli.”

“At your service.” He watched her squeal just a little as they gave simultaneous well-trained bows.

“You must be Miss Belladonna!” Kìli chirped before turning to Thorin and giving a knowing smile. What the _hell_ did that rascal think he was up to? “You must come and visit us some time! Uncle would _love_ to have you over for tea.”

“Maybe…” Thorin answered carefully, however regretting that as two small children came barrelling into him.

“Uncle is lying, Miss Belladonna!” Fìli protested, the small boy pulling on his hair. “He’d love to have you over!”

“Mhm, he would never want to hurt your feelings!” Kìli added, clinging to his back (somehow managing to jump up there). “Even if uncle can’t make tea, Gandy can!”

“Uncle’s a great singer! He’d keep you happy for _ages_ -“

“-And… and _we_ like you, uncle Thorin’s being mean… we’ll tell mummy, we promise.”

“You’ll tell the princess Dìs _what_ , exactly?” Countess Belladonna seemed confused, though her small smile failed to hide her amusement at his predicament. “I don’t see what your fuss is all about. Let your uncle put some clothing on, he might catch a cold.”

“I could say the same about you, countess. What are you doing, a gentlefolk in the wild all by yourself?”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” her tone suddenly became haughty, her chin tilting back. Oh he _knew_ he was done for, and he cursed his tongue. “Are you implying me to be incapable of defending myself?”

“No, no he’s not!” Kìli threw himself in front of Thorin, acting as if he were some form of protective barrier.

“He just can’t control his mouth in front of beautifully distracting women.” Fìli gave a toothy, innocent grin, appeasing the countess. Thorin all but groaned.

“While I _am_ flattered your highness, I am a _bit_ too old for you.”

“But I just turned seven!” Fìli half-protested as Kìli winked at Thorin’s mortified self. “How old are  you?”

“I turned twenty-four several weeks ago, your highness. I’m much too old for anyone.” She shrugged. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I _do_ have to get back home-“

“Uncle could drop you off on his horse.” Kìli suggested brightly.

“Oh, oh no, no, no, no that won’t be necessary. I only live over the hill across the water, it’s a _perfectly_ small walking distance.” She seemed frantic now, wanting to leave, even dropping his coat on the pebbles. “By the way, it is an honour to meet you sir.” She waved at Gandalf, who doffed his hat.

“You know, I do remember your mother.” The countess seemed a little perturbed, stepping back a bit, folding her arms and her brows furrowing together. She had a positively _adorable_ thinking face- and if he didn’t get his act together within the next few seconds he was risking sounding like a lovesick teen.

“I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

“I am Gandalf!” he exclaimed.

“Gandalf… surely not the Gandalf, the wandering artist!” she clapped both hands over her mouth. “Mother and Father used to have your fireworks on midsummer’s eve! I had _no_ idea you were still in business…” she rather un-gracefully mumbled the last part under her breath, evidently she had a small habit of thinking aloud.

“Well, for one, I am glad that you remember something about me, even if it _is_ my fireworks. Come, I will escort you home. Don’t be so put out, Thorin, after all the boys must have their tea soon.”

“I am playing tennis tomorrow, will you attend?” she shrugged, giving a small smile to him. Of course, both his nephews thought it was adequate that a hug be given in farewell.

“Look, I’m in a hurry, I’m very sorry.” She apologised and hitching her still heavy skirts, she ran off down a secluded forest track.

“Why does she keep doing that?”

"Maybe she's left her cake in the oven for too long." Fìli suggested, pulling on his trouser leg.

“She’s intimi- intimi… she’s scared of your thinking face unca,” Kìli answered sagely. “Papa says you look ‘emotionally constipated’.”

He was most _definitely_ going to have a small chat to his siblings about the things they say about him to his nephews.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much and please don't hesitate to comment about the story or suggest anything :)


	4. Part 3: Addiction to the written word and his lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smaug makes an appearance, Thorin is suffering but hey, we all will be in the next chapter. Libraries apparently count as great first dates and Fili and Kili are just being cute and adorbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going though the bookmarks and someone was asking why Lobelia was one of the stepsisters. I thought that maybe some others who aren't familiar with the film (please watch it, it's lovely) might also be confused. So, in the film, Danielle (cinderella) has two step sisters; Jacqueline and Marguerite. Marguerite is the one who's trying to ensnare the prince and is generally terrible to everyone (hence Lobelia, that fork-stealing tripe) and Jacqueline sort of gets sidelined by everyone, but turns out to be a badass and absolutely lovely (hence Primula). But this should clear up why in this AU that Primula isn't as 'evil' as such. This chapter was fun to write and the next one may just kill everyone, sorry in advance.

_Rivendell,1854._

_“You have a delightful library, at the Erebor University.” Faramir noted “Indeed, the best in the lands.”_

_“Thank you. It was once the sight of Baggins Manor, the farm became incorporated in the gardens. The library was built first and the University came next, as did the summer home so that the queen could read while tending to her garden. She and the king often read to their fourteen children, a feat considering that the queen was not as young as many of her counterparts.”_

_“Did the children enjoy the books?”_

_“Oh yes, the subsequent generations added and extended the library, indeed, this library is the pride of the university and of all Erebor.”_

* * *

“Bell, _where_ are my candlesticks? I can hardly see my food.” The Baroness huffed. Bilbo continued to serve the platters of roast, though slightly upset that if Lobelia kept poking at her meat like that she’d blunt the knives and bend the forks.

“I can’t find them, ma’am. I’ve searched high and low…”

“Well then, you incompetent wench that _too_ shall come out of your salary. Perhaps I shall sell you all off to Mordor.” She sniffed.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Primula chimed “The prince walked up to the king and argued with him until he agreed to release all the prisoners bound for Mordor.”

“He didn’t!” Bilbo exclaimed, her hand pressed against her chest in disbelief. The Baroness shot her a glare.

“Well… he did say that if they were imprisoned for murder and the like, they’d have to spend their time. However he _is_ making them finish apprenticeships so that ‘they may benefit the greater populous of Erebor’. Isn’t it exciting?!”

“Oh, how _utterly_ ridiculous!” Donnamira cried.

“ _I_ just want to know who this countess everyone is talking about.” Lobelia interjected “And how the prince was practically falling over his wonderfully-sculpted self.”

“Well, we shall just have to find her and bury her.”

‘ _You already have.’_ Bilbo thought ‘ _you buried me and hid me and punished me with these chores and prayed that I would be broken and that I would forget all that had come to pass.’_

* * *

“Damnation!” Thorin growled, noticing his ball had mysteriously vanished mid-match. Dwalin merely shrugged his shoulders, pointing to the masses of swooning women. Evidently the fact his shirt had loosened at the chest had something to do with it. Indeed a lady towards the front had fainted into the arms of her equally-as-distressed companion. Why couldn’t they just bugger off and marry someone who fulfilled their standards?

“Thorin, you _are_ their standards… and since when in Durìn’s name did you think aloud? Your mysterious countess is making an influence on your already.

“Your ball, highness.” Thorin dropped several (he meant copious amounts of) curses in his head, forcing a pleasant smile on his face as he willed himself to look Lobelia Sackville-Baggins in the face.

“Thank you Lobelia.” He answered curtly and taking the tennis ball back, all too aware of the women who were now throwing unsavoury glances at her (not that he minded). “You are looking well.”

“You are welcome to look.” She quipped, her bosom heaving. He wasn’t sure if her girdle was too tight or if that was just his general ‘effect’ on her. He was honestly hoping it was the former, God help him the day Lobelia decided to set her claws upon him. “Your grandfather has asked if my mother and I could escort you around our market.”

Not too quickly he turned back to face Dwalin, wishing to finish his match as quickly as possible while formulating as many insults and general un-princey actions in order to deter her. Or he could take his nephew’s advice and look emotionally constipated.

* * *

“Bilbo Baggins, my dear girl you get more pleasant to look at each day.” She dared to look up from her apple pie and strawberry tarts. Bell and Esmerelda’s eyes widened in fear.

“Lord Dante Smaug, you are wasting your flattery.” She squared herself, slamming her basket down with force, hoping the pastries hadn’t cracked.

“It’s a pity your land happens to be the best in the province, yet so poorly tended.” The worm had the sheer nerve to take her hand in his, placing a kiss upon her knuckles. His mere touch sent shivers of utter disgust up her spine, her hand having a mind of its own and jerking back from his clutches. “You know, I still remember when first we met. You were always _such_ a good sport when it came to riddles.”

“And you sir, don’t know how to piss off.” She replied bluntly, praying to every saint that he knew a dismissal when he saw one.

“I may be twice your age child, but I’m well endowed-” apparently he didn’t and his crudeness earned him a slap, however her wrist found its way back in his ugly hands. She was glad there was a heavy market bench between them “-as seen by my estate. I’ve always had a soft spot for the… less fortunate. You need a wealthy benefactor and I need a girl with spirit.”

“Is that how you view me, a girl? A child-bride to rape and add to your list of sadistic conquers? A tarnished and damaged coin to manipulate and join your hoard of treasure? I will not set foot upon the desolation that you call your estate and I would rather join my heavenly father than willingly walk into the gates of hell with you, you spawn of Lucifer-“

“ENOUGH!” his shout was heard by all the market place. “I will not buy anything from you this week. And let it be remembered that without my generosity your pathetic excuse for a farm would cease to exist.” He spat in her face, walking away without another word.

“Bilbo, oh dearie!” Bell rushed to pull her into a tight embrace, Esmerelda stroking her hair and humming soft tunes.

“I refuse to cry, such a man will not make me waste such precious tears.”

“He never would be able to. Oh, look at you, your mother would be proud.” Esmerelda smiled softly.

“Would she?”

“Aye, she would. To see her clever little daughter have such spirits. I hadn’t the heart to tell the man that you were older than he believed.”

“It is in his dotage, dear Bell, he has become old and fat. Indeed so much it has addled his brain, his mind may know it is 1599, but his heart still tells him it is the dark ages.”

“Oh, hold your wicked tongue.” Bell quipped, pinching her cheek. “Quick, quick hide!” without warning Bilbo was pushed to the ground, Esmerelda placing several bushels of vegetables over her. It was that beautiful voice that explained everything.

“Your servants? How charming.” The prince seemed unamused by Lobelia. “Madams, it is most pleasurable to meet you.” She rolled her eyes, hearing Bell’s unmistakeable giggle. “Weren’t there more of you?”

* * *

“We must press for a quick engagement. Ah, Dale in the snow!” Donnamira practically preened as Bilbo brushed her hair. She’d always resented the fact she’d taken her father’s old room, occupying and slowly selling off all his possessions. She hadn’t been able to hide much, other than all the books he’d ever given her and his old map of Erebor.

“Well…”

“No, I don’t suppose you can, oh, Bilbo dearie.” This was what Bilbo hated the most, the soft mocking tones Bellamira adopted when she took to acting ‘motherly’. “My mother was harsh on me too, you know. She taught me cleanliness was next to Godliness, always convinced my face wasn’t clean enough, and sure enough she would send me to the frozen cistern of the ivy courtyard.” There _were_ days where she pitied the woman, but today was certainly not one of them.

“That sounds harsh, madam.”

“Well, I am grateful. She taught me that I could be all I wanted to be, and here I am, Baroness. And Lobelia is to be queen. It’s a pity you never knew your mother.” Bilbo knelt down at her side, tending to her nails.  “Surely there must be something of her in you-“

“I wish I knew what she looked like-“

“Well, we must never feel sorry for ourselves, should we.” Bilbo nodded, the sadness weighing down her heart, feeling the ripping sensation at her chest, she could almost hear the chains weighing down her heart thud to the floor in a cacophony of iron and pain. “There was is so much of your father in you.” She held out a hand, patting Bilbo’s cheek with the most tender Donnamira had ever displayed.

“Really?” That glimmer, that single flame of hope that she would be loved was never truly extinguished.

“Yes, sometimes I see dear old Bungo looking out of your eyes… well… you grew to be a masculine beauty, no wonder you’re well suited to farm work. Now… I’m tired, off you go.” Bilbo brushed her hands off on her worn gown, standing up and giving a dignified curtsey she ran off into the meadows of the estate, hoping that Drogo would prove to be a good distraction.

And he did, her dearest friend painted the environment while she flew one of Gandalf’s flying contraptions, it had been shaped into the form of a fearsome dragon (she’d unironically named him after the slimy Smaug).

“Drogo, Drogo, it’s flying!” she laughed, tripping over her skirt in the wind, layers of thinning petticoats fluttering up wards, trying in vain to hold them down with one hand while the other held tightly to the heavy spool.

“I don’t understand why you’re so happy, Bilbo. You’ll be swimming in manure if they get married!”

“And that bothers you?” she asked incredulously “They’re both unsavoury and unsightly, I couldn’t care less!”

“You, Countess Tookborough would be bringing them second breakfast in bed.” He waved a threatening paintbrush, dripping with golden paint at her, as if brandishing a weapon.

“Yes, But Bag End would be mine.” She countered, twirling now as the dragon flew higher into the crystal-blue sky. “I could stay here, turn things around-“

“-Yes, but admit it, Bilbo. You _so_ fancy the pants off the Prince and if it’s not his pants, it’s at the very least his shirt.”

“ _No_ , piss off, Drogo. Remember when we were fauntlings and I used to absolutely thrash you when we wrestled in the mud?”

“Oh yes, a wild child she was too. Trailing twigs and covered in moths whenever she returned home. But, Bilbo, supposing if you saw Prince Thorin again-“

“I would say: ‘Your highness, fuck it, my family is yours and frankly I don’t see a need of them, take these ugly toads away’. Perhaps I would at least bid a fond farewell to Primula, after all, she was civil if not polite-“

“Well, I guess this is your chance-“ Bilbo’s eyes widened in horror as she spotted a large figure on a horse, and with an unsightly screech she ran behind a haystack, crouching tightly and hiding in the tall grasses and wildflowers of the meadow. Drogo laughed, painting calmly as the horse and his rider drew nearer and nearer to the haystack.

“Ehrm, morning.” Prince Thorin cleared his throat awkwardly, a hand on the reins and an arm slung around his nephews who sat upon the saddle with him. “Have you seen Gandalf?”

“G-Gan-Gandalf? _The_ Gandalf, the renowned painter!?” Drogo stuttered, losing hold of his paintbrush and palette “No, no I can’t say I have.”

“But is that _not_ his flying contraption?” Thorin sighed, clearly irritated ‘ _damn his expressive voice’_ Bilbo thought.

“Oh, ehrm… ehrm yes…. Yes it is!” Drogo answered surprisingly brightly, and Bilbo promptly released the spool of wool, watching with some dismay the dragon blown about by the wind, carried off far over the Misty Mountains in the distance. “It belongs to my dear… my Lady! The Countess of Tookborough!”

“You… you know Belladonna? I-I mean, the Countess of Tookborough?” Thorin asked in a disbelieving tone, before correcting himself.

“He knows Bella!?” Kìli chirped up, his exited voice heard even where Bilbo was hiding.

“Yes, unfortunately she’s staying with her cousin, Baroness Sackville-“

“That troll.” Thorin grumbled under his breath, a storm cloud practically brewing over his dark head.

“But I do know she’s there, home, alone.” Drogo  added helpfully, laughing with gusto as the insufferable prince rode with all haste to the manor.

“DROGO YOU DOLLOPHEAD!” Bilbo threw a punch to his shoulder “You are the _wors_ t _-“_

“Ah, say no more. I suggest you run.” And with a wicked gleam of his eyes he shooed her off, kicking at air at Bilbo as if kicking away an unwanted ball.

* * *

“Your highness, what an unexpected surprise!” All of a sudden he felt guilty, the poor woman was quite clearly breathless, obviously having run several flights of stairs down, perhaps having to rush through her toilette or her breakfast, lacing into her blue dress in a rush. Her honeyed curls fell around her face and hung down to her waist, held back with a small circlet. She reminded him of the promise of dawn, golden rays of the sun slowly rising over the deep blue velvet of night.

“I see you are related to the Sackville-Baggineses.”

“Unfortunately. Though only through marriage- _Oh_ , your highnesses, a pleasure to see you again!” he rolled his eyes, his irritating nephews barrelling into her, Kìli’s arms thrown about her neck and Fìli’s about her waist.

“I see you are not at church.”

“No, I am not.” She answered coolly as soon as the boys stopped treating her like one would a cuddle toy. “My faith is better served away from the rabid crowd.”

“Yes, my grandfather created quite a… kerfuffle with the edict he released. My apologies if my nephews bothered you-“

“We’re _never_ a bother, uncle!” Fìli answered cheekily and he internally fumed as the countess began to stifle her giggles. “Are we, Countess?”

“Oh, no, never. Though, if you wish to avoid the Baroness Sackville-Baggins, I suggest we vacate the premises immediately.” She grimaced, her head nodding towards the threshold of the manor. With great presence of mind he agreed, offering her his arm. However, once again, his nephews beat him to it, taking a hand each.

“I was headed towards the great library of Lothlorien, they have a rather fascinating collection and I was hoping that you wouldn’t-“

“It sounds perfect.” Belladonna gave a bright, genuine smile. “But will you really need your entire retinue? After all, should we not be at church, after all? St Durìn’s day is fast approaching-“

“Like I needed a reminder-“

“And if I wasn’t mistaken it was required that those who missed out were required to crawl the length of the cathedral in penitence.” She grinned wickedly, before kneeling down to the boys’ level and ruffling their hair. “Surely the Princess Dìs would be heartily disappointed to know her sons faced such a fate-“

“Dwalin!” Thorin turned sharply, calling to his dearest friend. “Tell the company I shall not be needing them, I am sure Bombur packed enough for lunch?”

“Aye, he did.” His reply a little gruff yet the knowing twinkle in his eyes refused to dim. “We shall inform his majesty that you are… occupied.”

“That’s uncle speak for he likes you.” Kìli informed Belladonna in a stage-whisper. “Besides, you haven’t had a day off in _ages_.” He dramatically swayed against Belladonna’s many skirts, clinging to her hand while another was pressed against his forehead in a swoon-like fashion.

“No, Kìli, I don’t suppose I have… Dwalin, hand the countess the spare horse-“

“You mean Myrtle, your highness?” Dwalin raised a brow, folding his thick arms. “That nag is temperamental, it wouldn’t even let-“

“I am sure it will suffice!” Countess Belladonna interrupted, giving a placating glance at both himself and the Captain of the Guard. “Please, do not allow me to be such a large hassle-“

“-In his royal arseness’ opinion, he thinks you are _well_ worth the hassle.” Dwalin addressed Belladonna with the ghost of a cheeky smile. “Get off your backside ya great lump, before they all get back from town.”

“Of course, of course. Countess.” He held out a hand, assisting Belladonna onto her saddle, though she seemed capable enough. “Would you mind if my youngest rides with you?”

“Not at all, here, are you comfortable?” Belladonna carefully patted down Kìli’s brunet hair, adjusting his little hat and making sure he was secure in front of her. “Shall I race you to the library, your highness?”

“Only if you believe you could defeat me.”

* * *

Primula was tired of living as if she were a phantom. She was tired of being treated as a lady, yet only slightly better than the servants and Bilbo. She couldn’t care less if she were treated like royalty orlike a servant, as long as it was one or the other. She had only ever met Sir Bungo once, and he was a lovely fellow, though she could see in those ten minutes that he was challenged by Lobelia. She also knew that while he was cordial to her mother, he never truly loved her.

Primula knew that it was being born a bastard that made the Baroness despise her. But she supposed her situation could have been worse, she could have been left at a convent or she could have been treated the way Bilbo was. But that didn’t mean she _liked_ the way Bilbo was being treated.

That was how she found herself that morning, rolling her eyes as Lobelia handed Queen Mìn a large brooch that she suspected the Baroness had asked to be stolen. She seemed to be on close terms with some guard called Smeagòl.

If fate had been cruel to her, and she had instead been born Lobelia, she would have found herself calling upon other noble ladies and discussing new ways of ensnaring Prince Thorin. However, she was not Lobelia, and instead, she had the pleasure of sitting by her window on a lovely, sunny afternoon after church, wondering why she couldn’t see Bilbo performing her usual grooming-down of the horses.

“My lady! Prim!” A wide grin spread across her face as she poked her head out of the window, pushing her limp hair behind her ear.

“Drogo! A pleasure to see you!” she laughed as he tried to push his jet-black curls away from his face. “Come join me in the kitchen, Bell has finished cooking her stew.”

She rather liked Drogo. Alright, that was an understatement, she _adored_ Drogo. She couldn’t care a fig about the fact he was only a tailor’s son, she cared more about the attention he often gave her. She loved his tousled curls and his dimpled smile and those deep green eyes, his eyelashes were like a doll’s and possibly more beautiful than any ladies’ she’d known. In fact, she’d had very many thoughts about their ‘farmboy’ as Lobelia called him that very many of them were enough to warrant a visit to a confessional booth (it wasn’t _her_ fault that his shirt was always open at his gorgeous chest…).

She knew him to be Bilbo’s closest friend, her conspirator, but lately she noticed that he would often go out of his way to do her bidding. When asked, he replied with a cryptic ‘as my lady wishes’ and blushed every shade of red.

Bell’s cooking proved to be lovely as always and she and Drogo shared a cup of ale by the hearth.

“Will your mother and sister be back soon?” Drogo asked nervously.

“Hm? No, I don’t think so. Tell me, have you seen Bilbo? I was hoping she could help me embroider my new slippers, and you know how good her needle work is…”

“Needlework? Like a proper lady? Bilbo would have fits.” He snorted “Anyway, I haven’t seen her.”

“I would find it amusing if she was with Prince Thorin, just imagine how peeved Lobelia would be!” she giggled, clapping her hands together. Drogo paled noticeable, perspiration evident upon his brow. “Drogo… you don’t mean to say…”

“Do you remember the day Hamfast came home?”

“Yes, I can certainly say I do…”

“You swear that you won’t tell anyone. _Shit_ , My lady, if you tell anyone, Bilbo could be killed-“

“She _isn’t_ the mysterious countess, is she?”

“She is indeed.” The words poured over her and she took a deep breath, contemplating what this meant for her and for her family.

“Do you think she’ll succeed? Get the prince to marry her?”

“By god, I hope she does.”

* * *

“Do you have a favourite?” she could feel Thorin’s warm breath ghosting over her cheek as they stood in close proximity, pinned between the tight shelves filled with heavy volumes of books.

It was said the monks of Lothlorien Monastery were immortal, how else would they have written so many books by hand? The Mother Superior of the nunnery, Sister Mary Galadriel, had been a close friend of her mother’s, so she avoided the convent at all costs.

“I could no sooner pick a star in the heavens, sire.” She replied in earnest, her hands skimming across the spines of many of the books as they walked through, noting with interest the fine golden chains keeping them to their places. “Do you know why these books are what I favour over fine jewels and dresses?”

“No, but please do indulge me.” He gave her an encouraging grin, a nod urging her to continue.

“My father often travelled, he would bring me back books of science and philosophy. My mother however would invent wild, fantastical tales of romance and journeys, of brave queens and warrior princesses. My mother died first, as did those tales of romance, so you’ll have to pardon me if I come across as cynical-“

“You are far from cynical, Belladona.” It felt wrong, to have him say her name in such an intimate way. Indeed, it pained her to know that he did not think of Bilbo in a fond manner the way he thought of her persona.

“I can be. But books of science and philosophy, _Utopia_ was the final book my father gave before he died. After that I was passed around aunts and uncles and convents.-“

“Incredible-“

“What?”

“After all my years of study, not _one_ tutor displayed the amount of passion you have shown me in the space of mere seconds.”

“I am addicted to the written word, I would give anything to hear my father’s voice again, and I would rather live in a library than be showered with jewels and silks. A library and a garden for me to tend to my roses.” She added as an after- thought.  “But anyway, what does his highness dream of? You will have the throne, what will you do?”

“Me?” he paused, his hands spread widely as he leaned upon the mezzanine railing. “I had once dreamed of a university where all people, regardless of race or gender could study. I would have found the best minds throughout the land to tutor them. I dreamed of improving the great mines of Erebor, ensuring that no woman was left widowed after a day of work.”

“You can still achieve all your dreams-“

“That’s the thing, Belladonna, they are all but dreams. There is a point in a prince’s education where they place more emphasis upon battle and the glory of battle.”

“You fought in Azalnulbizar, did you not?” she asked gently, trying not to be harsh.

“Aye, my father and grandfather and cousin did. My brother was too young and my sister was pregnant with Fìli. Father never returned, he was driven mad after the battle and we never saw him the next morning. We defeated the Gundabad army, however one of their generals went rogue. Azog-“

“Surely not the criminal lord?”

“The very same. Though they all fear Smaug most of all. But enough talk, I suspect the boys must be tiring of their day.”

“Oh indeed.” She agreed, spying his nephews irritating one of the novices, reading over his shoulder and giving ‘artistic’ advice regarding the book he was decorating.

“I adore children.” He blurted out, looking shocked that he even stated such a thing.

“The stoic prince adores children?” she was surprised, if anything, he’d always come off as a cold and introverted person, not wishing to share any of his warmth.

“Aye.” He was almost embarrassed, looking at her through the corners of his eyes, blushing ever so slightly. She couldn’t help but laugh, leaning her head against his arm. “Though, at this rate, I am proving successful in scaring away potential wives and mothers to my children.”

“And how many children would the prince have, assuming he finds a brood mare-“

“I do _not_ want a brood mare. I intend to love my wife with all the respect she deserves and more.” He pouted, turning away from her as she laughed even harder. “And I would want as many as possible. I even have names chosen out.”

“Oh dear god, let’s hope your wife survives the ordeal. Though I hear Princess Tove of Moria comes from good breeding stock, seeing as she is the middle child of twelve, her mother not losing a single child.”

“Please, do not remind me of Princess Tove. She has the personality of a dung brick.” He choked out a laugh, finally finding the courage to face her, his usually grim face lit up with amusement (and just a little red from mortification). “But you are right, we should leave. Fìli, Kìli!”

“Have you decided to marry Auntie Belladonna yet!?” Fìli asked brightly. Belladonna froze on the spot, not daring to look at the prince as he slowly collapsed, head buried in his arms on the mezzanine railing. “I jest! Uncle, please don’t break down, mother will stop me from having dessert for the rest of my life!”

* * *

Thorin was surprised he hadn’t died of a stomach ulcer yet. He was surprised he even _liked_ children considering his two nephews. He was sure Fìli would grow up to be a strong lad, a great prince and perhaps even king if the whole marriage business when arse-over-head.

He was not well known for his sense of direction, hence the fact Kìli was doing his ‘duty’ by firmly clamping his hands over Thorin’s eyes, ensuring that he did not see Belladonna strip herself of her outer gown and climb up the rockface.

“Tell me, how is it you get lost in your own kingdom?”

“I don’t know, the roads are built terribly. I shall add signage when I become king!” he promised.

“Of course you shall- Oh _damnation_ , your highness we’ve been travelling in the absolutely wrong direction! Oh dear me, we shall _really_ have to supply you with a map.”

“Is there anything you don’t do? You read, you garden, you debate, you swim and now you scale large cliffs!”

“Fly!” she answered “Oh… um… Kìli, be a gem and remove your hands from your uncle’s eyes…”

“I would stay very still, if I were you.” The man facing him had drawn a bow, arrow pointed between his eyes.

“Oh dear _god_ , not another prince. Are we ever going to find anyone with cooking abilities, and not just some spoiled brat?” his blond companion seemed exasperated, massaging his temples with his fingers. “Ah, the lovely lady has finally joined us!”

“Thorin, be a dear and cover the boys’ ears for me?” Thorin complied, pressing Fìli and Kìli up against him, hoping to deafen any sounds with his thick cloak and a hand over each ear. “What in the name of orc shit do you two think you’re fucking up to?” well, he hadn’t expected that.

“My apologies, my lady. We’re merely here in trade, that is, the people trade. We merely steal from the rich and give to the poor. I look debonair while doing so while my pathetic husband-“the brunet with a goatee nudged his blond partner (apparently his husband) with his elbow, arms still tensed, ready to fire an arrow. “Laughs and makes witty remarks.”

“Husband? That’s unconventional, you must not be from Erebor then?” she seemed curious, though still tense.

“No, indeed not, we come from a forest to the east of Erebor. But alas, we must be leaving soon so if you wouldn’t mind-“

“Please allow me one thing, please, one!” she begged, pulling at the bond’s grey sleeves. “You may have the horses and my companion’s cape and my jewellery, we care not for them but-“

“For your politeness my lady, we will let you have anything your heart desires, as long as you can carry it.” The brunet placed his arrow back in his quiver, gesturing to their wagon of supplies. “It was getting heavy after all, and we must make our way to our camp.”

“On your word?”

“On my word as a bowman.” The brunet swore, hand over-heart.

“And upon mine as a minstrel.” Well, that certainly made sense to Thorin, the forests east of Erebor were often occupied by those who wished for freedom apart from the kingdom’s laws, they were free territory and had been granted as such that all peoples who lived in them may live how they want, but their troubles could not cross the border.

“What are you doing across the border? You were exiled there by choice-“

“We were merely travelling to the great masque for St Durin’s day.” The blond answered, the exasperation bleeding into his deep voice once again. “I am Thranduil, king of all minstrels. My husband is Bard the bowman, our party’s protector.”

“A pleasure, I am sure.” Thorin replied sourly, disliking his experience being held hostage more and more by the minute. Fìli and Kìli seemed to be taking their situation rather well, however.

“Anything. Alright, but do the boys go according to their own free will?”

“Of course, we already have too many children.”

“Alright.” To his greatest surprise she moved over to him with much deliberation, lifting up his arms and throwing him across her back, lifting him with great ease. It must have looked incredibly comical as both his nephews collapsed into fits of laughter, Kìli even falling to the floor and rolling around while Fìli clutched at his stomach, his silent laughter too painful for him to bear. Even their captors laughed, Bard hiding his amusement behind his hands.

In fact, Belladonna had made it at least a few yards before Thranduil called her back, offering dinner. Belladonna dropped him upon the floor without a second thought, running and leaving him forgotten upon the path.

* * *

“ _You_ , are reading my thoughts, milord.” She laughed, moving her chess piece across the board.

“And I am sure they are as fuzzy as mine.” Thorin replied. Oh how she _loved_ her ale, but she hoped that she would not unwittingly divulge any information.  Fìli and Kìli made quick friends with Bard’s children, however Kìli seemed rather taken with a ginger lass Thranduil was taking care of. They had learned that both Thranduil and Bard’s wives had died several years ago and with the razing of their village, they’d been left to wander the eastern forests. Those forests were now dubbed Mirkwood, infested with pests and other things that left even Thranduil too anguished to mention.

“Then Erebor concedes?”

“Never!”

“Obstinate as ever, terrible move.” She took his rook without second thought, admiring her growing pile of stolen pieces. Thorin had stripped off his finer garments, leaving him in a simple linen shirt with laces open at his neck as well as his breeches and boots. It was _incredibly_ distracting and he knew it, it seemed that ever few moves or so he would loosen up his shirt or run his damned attractive fingers through his hair or bite his lip just a little. In retaliation she’d remained in her underclothes, allowing her sleeve to fall off a single shoulder.

“Ah, but you opened yourself up, look.” He took her own knight and with a cocky grin, he added it to his own collection.

“I would give up as playing against you is absolutely impossible, but my pride refuses to allow me to do so.”

“As does mine, dearest Belladonna.” And _there_ it was again, however instead he licked his lips this time, staring intently into her eyes. Well, two could play at that game and she shifted her hair to one side, letting the firelight glow upon her neck and collar bones and exposed shoulder.

“You should _really_ stop licking you lips-“

“Yes, but it is yours that hypnotise me.” She wasn’t sure what came over them but his hand was caressing her cheek, feeling the callouses upon his fingers formed by years of training tracing the shape of her lips. In an equally bold move her own hand found its way into his hair, pulling the pair of them closer together, so much so that she could feel his breath on her lips, his other arm winding around her waist. The biggest surprise of the day however (and there were many), was simply how soft his lips were, how a simple kiss reduced her to a sense of light-headedness, a pleasurable delirium she would gladly suffer over and over again. His kisses intensified as she released a small moan, her hands exploring his chest and pulling loosening that damned shirt’s laces as much as she dared.

“Ewww!” her plans of biting his lower lip in revenge were cut short as Kìli hid his hands behind his eyes.

“I’m telling mummy!” Fìli shouted as Bard and Thranduil laughed in the distance.

“Oh damn, they won’t let me hear the end of this…” his forehead was pressed up against hers, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. With a final kiss to her forehead he assisted her up, throwing a knitted blanket across her shoulders. “It is getting late, perhaps we should get back. I understand your estate is not far from here?”

“No it is not, if we hurry we will be there shortly. Thank you, Bard and Thranduil for your hospitality.”

“It is only because the lady is so talented and polite, unlike his highness.” Thranduil gave a genuine bow to herself, which she returned in kind. Thorin scoffed. With final farewells out of the way, they made their way back onto the road, each one of them with one of the boys in their arms. She smiled, considering what it would be like if he only knew who she really was, if he could kiss Bilbo the way he had kissed Belladonna.

“Will you come visit me tomorrow on Raven Hill?”

“Perhaps, it depends…”

“I _need_ to see you tomorrow, it is of an urgent nature.” He seemed worlds away from the harsh and cold prince that she knew.

“Oh well, seeing as you insisted.” They continued down the road, reaching the grounds of Bag End in a small amount of time. “Take one of the horses.” She supressed a laugh considering what happened the last time he had taken one of her horses. “They will get you and the boys home. Keep it if you will, it is my horse.” She led him to the stables, removing from her mind all possible ideas of a moonlit roll in the soft hay with Thorin’s loose shirt hanging from his well-built frame.

“With pleasure.”

“Also, Kìli is asleep, take care that he doesn’t fall off. Thorin-“

“Yes?” he turned around too quickly for her liking, his blue eyes meeting her own brown ones. She could have stayed in that gaze forever, reluctant to move from where she stood. “Take care.” With a final kiss to his lips she waved him off, too giddy to fall asleep and to her regret later that morning, too reckless to think of the consequences.


	5. Part 4: She is dressed in lace and forged of steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for the hiatus, but the chaos got a bit overwhelming and it was a bit hard to write this section. Anyway, won't keep you long, here's the update and please, by all means, tell me how it was.

_Rivendell, 1854._

_“But like all tales, it cannot be that simple, your majesty-“_

_“No, of course it is not, Boromir. If anything, judging by your interest in my family’s tale, you’d think that you were a child.”_

_“Are all not all children? We age, we wither, we mature, but we never truly grow up.”_

_“No indeed.”_

* * *

“FRERIN!” Thorin threw open the curtains of his brother’ bed before stepping back, immediately shutting the heavy velvet curtains once again. His brother’s romantic trysts were not a scene to be greeted with in the morning. Correcting himself, any person’s beside himself’s romantic trysts were not a sight to be greeted with in the morning. “Frerin… Pierre?” Thorin believed he recognised the French Ambassador sharing his brother’s bed.

“Morning sire.” Pierre gave a small wave, pulling the sheets further up.

“Frerin, I am going to build a university with the greatest library known to all the universe. As the treasurer, I need you to fund it for me.”

“That sounded incredibly… decisive… almost like a man in love…” Frerin answered slowly with a yawn.

“I am not finished, brother. It is a university where people of all stations can study.”

“Who are you and what the _fuck_ have you done to my brother?”

* * *

“Are you _ill_ ?” Bilbo knew she was ankle-deep in orc shit when Donnamira swooped from her perch in the manor to the stable where she slept.

“No… well um… yes…” her forehead did feel hot, however it was possibly nothing.

“Where _were_ you?” Lobelia held a bucket of iced water in her arms, threatening to be spilled over her head. Primula however stood closer to the ladder, looking uncomfortable to be there and indeed rather relieved to see her.

“I… got lost…”

“I don’t believe it-“

“Mother.” Primula warned.

“You’re hiding something. I want you to tell me.” The baroness demanded. Bilbo merely pulled up her bare sheets further up, turning away from her stepmother. She’d had quite enough and she would be damned before she dragged her out of bed after such a perfect night.

“Why don’t you tell me so I may go back to sleep?” Bilbo heard Primula’s distinct cough, the one she released only when she was highly amused.

“Ha! That _nerve_ , that’s it, you selfish wench!”

“What are you- _NO!”_ she found herself being dragged out by the hair, Donnamira on one side, Lobelia on her other, frog-marching her back to the manor, disregarding how many muddy puddles they dragged her bare feet through. Primula’s protests fell on deaf ears, Donnamira even being cruel enough to order Drogo to restrain her youngest daughter. She was thrown against the wall the moment they entered her mother’s old room.

“Right, your mother’s gown! Ah, here it is, you shan’t be going to the ball anymore, _I_ shall be wearing this dress, after all, your mother was nothing but a whore, everyone knows that-“

“TAKE THAT BACK!” Bilbo pulled free from Donnamira, scrambling over pieces of furniture to reach her step-sister. “Take that _back_ Lobelia!”

“Ha! Like I ever _cared_ about what I said about you. _Oh_ , I should have said so many things and so many more things about your mother-“ Bilbo had definitely had enough, but what was certain was that Lobelia had fallen off the bed, her legs landing over her head, Bilbo at her throat. “She’s _dead_ , like your pathetic father-“

“TAKE. THAT. BACK.”

“This has gone far enough. Right, Bilbo _darling_ , look what I have…” Donnamira held her father’s map of Erebor over the fireplace, flames beginning to lick the edges.

“No, _no_!” Lobelia had recovered, holding Bilbo fast, refusing to even give her a proper view of her father’s most precious gift to her. Lobelia laughed, continuing to taunt her.

Bilbo received a sound lashing that morning, before being thrown out of the manor, back into her stable. She’d fallen asleep, trying in vain to forget the pain. The sight she hadn’t expected to greet her, however, was Drogo and Primula, sitting close together by the side of her bed. Her body ached all over, but her back was exposed to the bitter cold, the tightness, she could only assume, came from her lashes beginning to heal over. It wasn’t as cold as it should have been, however, the fireplace seemed to be lit with more wood than usual and her bed seemed to have had a bed-pan slid between the sheets recently.

“Oh, Drogo! She’s awake, fetch the water, we must clean the wounds.” Drogo obliged, and Primula situated herself near Bilbo’s exposed back, a towel ready in hand. She’d never seen Primula so determined, indeed, she’d always taken Primula to have been a rather distant and empty-minded sort of person. Perhaps Bilbo was wrong, perhaps she had finally had enough to do with the Sackvilles. Or perhaps, Bilbo was bitterly right, and she’d done wrong by ignoring the poor girl for the last decade or so.

Why had she even taken on the farm work? It was something her father had said to her, something about being unfailingly kind and showing them the ropes, after all, they hadn’t an idea on how to run a farm. But she’d simply been… she’d been too complacent with things.

“Ow!”

“I’m sorry…” Primula whispered, sounding too scared to talk. “But you brought this upon yourself you know… you shouldn’t have- shouldn’t have let your temper get the better of you. But what Lobelia said was wrong.”

“Thank you, Primula.”

“Although, Bilbo, I shall never forget the way Lobelia’s feet landed over her head, her skirts falling down like that. She’s cruel and mother is…”

“You don’t have to speak of her-“

“I envy you, your parents loved you. I’m sorry I never… intervened sooner, though I wish I had-“

“That doesn’t matter Primula, what matters is that you care, and I will never, ever forget that.”

* * *

Thorin thought he’d never have to see the Baroness Sackville anytime soon, but here he was, dragged into a conversation with them over tea. Fìli and Kìli had wasted no time in regaling their mother with stories of what they had gotten up to during her weeks away in Gondor. Needless to say, he’d received a sound telling-off from Dìs before she delightfully giggled and asked for every little detail about Belladonna. Frerìn, once he’d decided that he’d tired of making love to Pierre, was also delighted and was kicked out of the room the moment his jokes became too bawdy for sensitive ears.

“Oh yes our cousin…” Thorin arched a brow, unsure about how reluctant Lobelia sounded and looking like she’d just been forced to swallow a swarm of angry bees, the large sort found with the bear-like groundskeeper of Erebor. “Belladonna…” and with a huff she ran from the room, the sound of her tantrum echoing through the halls. Dìs rolled her eyes and Thorin was glad he’d hidden his two nephews away with Balin in a lesson, assured that they would not be poisoned by the likes of the Baroness.

“Oh, she’s nothing of import, highness-“

“Nothing of import, Baroness? Nothing of _import_?” His sister coughed a little, muttering about his snarling.

“To you at any rate,” She rustled like an affronted peacock who had just been called ugly “She’s engaged to be married… to some… Austrian.”

“An _Australian_?” That was absurd, the entire continent was populated with criminals from Mordor and England. Apart from Iocaine powder, the deadliest poison known to mankind, there was no economy there, how was he going to _provide_ for her should she be hypothetically be engaged to some-

“No brother, an Austrian.” Dìs corrected gently, though he could hear her own heart falling just as his had begun to slowly disintegrate into fine dust. _Surely_ , Belladonna would have mentioned it, perhaps she was coerced into the marriage, had she not mentioned that the baroness was her only cousin? Such was the fate of many wards of the state, despite Belladonna being much older than the age of reason, no, he could not accept this.

Thorin wasn’t sure of how long he had spent waiting at Raven Hill, completed immersed in his nerves, but it had been several hours at least. He’d sat himself upon one of the stone benches, masterfully carved by the masons of Erebor, his eyes fixed upon the path, hoping he’d see those familiar honeyed curls and those clever eyes and that damn smile that got him into this whole mess in the first place.

She was angelic, floating towards him, rivalling the goddess Yavanna of the old myths. Her hair was lightly sprinkled with the petals of the climbing flowers that had grown steadily over centuries on the stone ruins of the old fortress atop Raven Hill. He plucked an Elanor flower from a bush, tucking it behind her ear as she drew close to him.

Her red eyes was the first thing he noticed, and the deep red shawl she had pulled across her shoulders, refusing to reveal the skin of her smooth back.

“I… I can’t ever see you again.”

“Belladonna, my love, what are you talking about?” he held her in his arms, but she pushed away, willing herself to be further and further away from him. “Is it true? Are you to be wed?”

“N-no, it’s not _like_ that it’s-“

“Belladonna, please, I love you and I intend to present you to my grandfather at the masque.” She interrupted once again with a sob, but he caught her arm fast. What he hadn’t expected was for her shawl to fall to the ground. With a pitiful moan, she scrambled to the floor, trying to place it back over her shoulders. “What is this?”

“Nothing.”

“Love.” His fingers traced over light lash marks against her back, faded enough to tell him it had been delivered  to her at least a couple of day prior. No, they must not be too deep, but he knew her well enough that she was hiding the pain. “How are twenty lashes nothing? Who did this to you?”

“It’s… it’s of no consequence-“

“They did this to you because they want you to marry that Austrian, yes? They will _not_ get away with this. Please, I beg of you.” He shook her shoulders lightly, a hand caressing her cheek, tilting her face towards his. “Please give me their names.”

“I couldn’t and I cannot see you again. Please, _Thorin_ , forgive me, I cannot stay.” Thorin quietly helped her up, wiping away the stray tears that spilled from her brown eyes. He’d always found her eyes so beautiful, warmer than the noontime balls of the summer solstice, brighter than the stars above. “Please _stop_ looking at me like that, it makes it so much harder to leave you-“

“Then don’t. Stay with me forever, be my queen. Help me build that university, as I’ll build you your library and garden-”

“You know exactly why I can’t.” Once again, he cursed his grandfather. The law stated all female orphans of the state would only receive their inheritance once they were wed, the groom chosen by a relative. She had no choice. “Thorin, it’s been such a lovely time, it really has. Last night was the happiest night of my life, but I don’t belong here, not in this palace and not with you. I belong in my armchair with my garden. I-“

“Belladonna-“

“Goobye Thorin.” With a final kiss, she communicated all her longing and all her sorrow, the taste of tears still on her soft lips. It pained him to see her go, to see her retreating figure as she practically ran down the mountain, stumbling in the layers of snow that had begun to fall.

* * *

“Of all the things!” It was a miracle that Donnamira hadn’t forced her to kneel in the embers of the flame, though perhaps it would have been less painful. Oh, she doubted she would have even felt the lick of the flames and the searing pain, no, for her hart had been shattered. She didn’t  _want_ to leave him, she loved him. Every second she had with Thorin made her feel alive again, like those days with her mother and father. Now her world was as cold as the bitter winter winds outside. “You make your mother a  _Countess_ and then oh! It’s almost as absurd as a servant girl who ruts with the prince-“

“What is worse, madam? That I am common or that I am the clear and unequivocal winner above all other competition?”

“How dare you, slut.” She struck her. Bilbo glared up, her defiant gaze meeting Donnamira’s unrelenting one. She couldn’t even be bothered to explain that she and the prince had never lain together, but at this point, she couldn’t care. “But that isn’t the point. Where is the dress, Bilbo?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The dress! Your dead mother’s wedding dress! They’re missing along with the shoes.”

“I _know_ you hid them, Bilbo.” Lobelia sniffed, however, the absence of Primula bothered her more.

“Where are the candlesticks? Hm? The tapestries? My father’s books and my mother’s chests, do you _really_ think I’d notice their absence? Perhaps they’re with them!” her step-mother took a step closer to her, grabbing her by the straps of her bodice, breathing down her neck like she was the devil himself.

“You will tell me where that dress is,” she threatened in a quiet voice, the silence betraying to Bilbo _exactly_ what Donnamira had planned for her “and Lobelia shall wear it to the ball, and you shall leave.”

“I would rather _die_ a thousand deaths than see that cow in my mother’s gown.” Bilbo gave her final reply, pointing an accusing finger at Lobelia, though in truth, she really didn’t know where the gown had gone.

“Well, perhaps that can be arranged.” She yelled in agony as she was dragged by the hair down the winding stone steps and into the kitchen cellar, the key turning in the lock before Bilbo could get off the floor. “Now, I shall leave you here to… stew over everything you have ever done and devise a punishment fit for you in the morning. Now, come Lobelia, we must have a gown fitted for you. You… servants, whatever your names are! Gather all that will fetch a price, my daughter will ensnare that boy they call a king whether you like it or nay.”

“Mother.” Bilbo’s keen ears (she’d always liked to think she had a keen sense of hearing) picked up the sweet voice of Primula, shy and sweet, but this time her words laced with firm determination. “It’s only a ball, you needn’t be so cruel.”

“Yes, and you’re only going for the food. After all, it’s not like you’re worth the effort. You’re not as pretty nor witty nor bright for that fact, as your sister.” Bilbo was personally outraged for Primula, but she knew well enough that no amount of threatening with sharp objects would help her.

She sat upon a low stone shelf, watching the sun sink from its zenith to below the horizon, a candle’s guttering flame the only thing illuminating the pantry now. She never asked for a prince, she’d only wanted to be free, to have her parents’ things again, to be rid of Donnamira and Lobelia. But she’d well and truly sent that dream tits-up. She’d devised several plans of escaping the pantry, each one becoming more and more fanciful then the next, her most recent involved a hypothetical keg of gunpowder, but even _she_ would fail to survive that blast.

* * *

Primula refused to accompany her mother and Lobelia to the tailor’s, preferring instead to remain at the manor. She was running out of time.

“Drogo! Oh, there you are!” she pulled Drogo into a tight embrace, after scrambling back from the marketplace. “Well, this uniform is a little patched, but it should work nonetheless.”

“Boy, hurry!” Lobelia recalled that the plump woman was named Esmerelda, she was fussing over a trunk, fumbling with the lock. “Lass, are ye sure about this? This is your mother-“

“She really isn’t, ma’am. My mother I mean, but it is a long tale. I’ve fetched Bell and Hamfast just as you asked. What are we doing?” she sat beside the kindly servant and assisted her in heaving the lid open. Just as she had predicted, there lay Bilbo’s mother’s gown, protected by sheets of thin parchment. The glass slippers lay atop them, though looking rather plain for wear. “These are the slippers I am to embroider, yes?”

“Oh, only if you want to, child. Those small satin flowers fell off long ago, our Bilbo tells me you’re rather talented with the needle. How delicate can you sew?”

“As delicate as need be, ma’am.” Primula answered, fumbling in her pocket for a needle. Drogo was donning the uniform in the corner.

“Well, I want you to take these pressed flowers and sew them.”

“Ma’am?”

“It’s what Belladonna fancied.” The servant confided “Before the mistress died she had the passing fancy of sewing pressed flowers onto her little glass slippers. They’d never have fit your dainty little sister, but Bilbo has the same feet.”

“My mothe- Donnamira often says they’re large and oaf-like, I’d always imagined it to be a gross exaggeration.” She examined the slippers, if she were to wear them, the heel would slip off the way it most definitely would have slipped off Lobelia’s own foot. “Drogo, are you done?”

“Yes, love.” Primula hoped she had the grace to blush while Esmerelda chuckled good-heartedly.

“Drogo,” she stood up, brushing off her hands she took his own warm, work roughened hands in her own. “You’re Bilbo’s dearest friend you simply _must_ find a way to get her to the ball. The prince expects to see her there and I’ll be _damned_ if he even _considers_ a marriage to my sister.”

“But how _can_ I? I’m just a farm boy-“

“Go see Gandalf! The man’s an eccentric and will see anyone, and surely a painter will see another painter?”

“But he’s the greatest painter in the world… there is no way he’ll see me-“

“Do it for Bilbo.” Primula answered simply. Drogo nodded, placing a small kiss upon her fingers before running out of the room, she hoped she would find him in time.

* * *

“ _I_ wanted to be the peacock!” Bilbo stood up with a start, rushing over to the metal grilles of the pantry door that allowed her to see out. She very nearly guffawed at the sight of Lobelia dressed over-the-top in layers of turquoise and purple satins, swathed in numerous peacock feathers, including her mask. However, she caught Primula’s little grin hidden behind her small hand as she feigned disappointment. Donnamira was dressed as if she were already queen, while Primula picked out a dainty little blue dress she’d had in her wardrobe for a while.

“Oh, nonsense Primula. You’re only there for the food-“

“And I suppose I shall be pulling the carriage while I’m at it, shall I?”

“If you think it will get us there any faster.” The baroness snapped, before leaving her line of sight. It seemed like an age before the candle in her pantry finally blew out, leaving wisps of smoke behind. She had no other way to light the furnace of the stove in order to keep herself warm, she really should have thought that out.

“Here she is, but sir, I am afraid this door is impossible to open-“

“Drogo!” Bilbo gasped in pleasant surprise, craning her neck in order to try and spot her friend through the metal grilles. “Who is it? Who did you bring?”

“Bilbo Baggins.” Bilbo froze on the spot, willing that the great stone flagstones would swallow her whole. She recognised Gandalf’s voice, though she knew he must’ve been aware of the charade from the moment he laid eyes on her and mentioned her parents.

“Hello, Gandalf. What are you doing here?”

“I would ask you the same question, Bilbo Baggins. Now, step back. This may not work-“

“Gandalf?” Bilbo did as she was asked, stepping back as the artist gave two firm taps upon the metal hinges, and began to pull them out of place.

“That’s just genius, that is!” Drogo exclaimed. “Bell, Esmerelda! Quick, are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Bilbo was completely confused to say the least, especially once the circular door rolled away from it’s frame. “Gandalf, please, I can’t face him.”

“Bilbo, the world isn’t in your books, it’s out there. Have courage.” He smiled kindly, allowing Bell and Esmerelda past him in the dark.

“But I’m not my mother, Gandalf-“

“Then am I not your godfather?” he leaned against a keg of ale, patiently waiting for the ladies to lace her into her mother’s gown. “I’m just the bastard son of a peasant, and yet here I am, one of the Maiar of Valinor, and an Istari. Bilbo, he deserves to know the truth, and if I know Thorin half as well as I know you, then he will love you regardless-“

“I _lied_ to him Gandalf. I cannot face him… a fish may love a bird, godfather, but where shall they live?”

“Well then, my dear girl, I shall build you wings.”

* * *

“Unca, you’ll drive a hole into the floor.” Kìli pointed out, already mussing up the hair his mother had lovingly brushed for him. Fìli fiddled with his little velvet cap, unhappy with the large feather sticking out of it.

“Mhm, and granddaddy will be angry because he doesn’t want to pay for a new floor.” Fìli agreed, both his nephews giving him their trademark puppy eyes, looking not unlike a Golden Retriever and Labrador puppy respectively.

“What’s the point, she won’t even be here.” Thorin complained, leaning against the ledge of the massive stone window, staring out at the courtiers who had begun to fill the outdoor courtyard. Balin had been having conniptions about the ball while Dwalin had grumbled all the while about military expenditures and the amount of guards needed to guard the guests. Fìli had toddled up to him, encircling his waist in a tight hug while his brother danced his happy little jig around Thorin’s legs.

“Yes she will, because she _loves_ you-“

“No she doesn’t-“

“Yes she does, Unca. Stop being a thickity-thick head.” Kìli immediately stopped bouncing around and stomped a little foot into the floor. It would be adorable if it weren’t for the fact a four-year-old thought he knew more about romance than he did. “You’ll get married and have plenty of babies and bake cupcakes and OOH!” Kìli clapped his little hands together “I’ll have cousins!”

“Yeah! And they’ll probably be more fun than you, uncle!” Fìli added in delight before stopping in his tracks, noticing Thror approaching him. Fìli hid behind his uncle, dragging poor Kìli along with him.

“Thorin!” Thror boomed, making his way over and stopping just short of him. Thorin anticipated  the very worse, watching his grandfather’s grey beard tremble with emotion. “I just wanted to tell you, Frerìn told me of the university idea and well… It is a good idea. You’re beginning to think of more than just war games. Tell me, has a woman influenced this thinking?”

“What does it matter?”

“Thorin, if you would prefer, I do not have to announce the engagement tonight-“

“You made a treaty with Moria, it hardly seems decorous for me to refuse.” Thorin bit out. He was in a dreadful state from that moment forth.

The party goers seemed oblivious to his mood, and those that were aware avoided him like the Fell Winter. Dìs merely sighed, shaking her head, gathering her two boys in her arms as she shepherded them to the dining tables. Even Dwalin, the most immune to his moods and temper, seemed exasperated with him. To Thorin, there was no point in denying the obvious, he was going to have to face a marriage to Tove, whether he liked it or not. Yet with every passing second he could not help but to remember those honeyed curls and amber eyes, and the utmost pain she had communicated in a single second. He bitterly regretted the fact he could do no more to assist her and to-

He’d even forgotten the fact his grandfather had begun to announce his bride. Yet Belladonna stood before him, all the way at the gates of the gardens, a vision in silver. His own winged angel, more precious than all the mithrìl the mines of Erebor produced. She glided, the crowd parting, curtseying, silently commanding them with all the regalness he knew she possessed.

His feet led him to her, one step after another, the crowd blurred past as he finally held her own hand in his, eyes shining brighter than they ever had.

“Thorin, listen, I-“

“It doesn’t matter, you’re here now and look, I even invited Thranduil and Bard, and I have begun to plan that university and-“

“Thorin _please_ , listen to me, I need to tell you something-“

“STOP!” Thorin did indeed freeze in his steps, watching as an outraged Baroness Donnamìra pushed her way through a mesmerised crowd, her unsightly eldest daughter following like a witch’s familiar. “You do not know what you are doing, see this wench?”

“Madam, I suggest you hold your tongue-“

“Stepmother, _please_ , I beg of you, stop. I need to do something-“ Thorin very nearly smote the woman where she stood from nave to chaps, ripping apart the delicate, almost translucent wings that Belladonna wore.

“ _She_ , is a servant girl! Tell them, tell them, slut.” The Baroness pulled at Bilbo’s curls.

“It is true, my name is Bilbo Baggins. I am Mr Bungo Baggins’ daughter, he was of the landed gentry in the countryside. Belladonna Tookborough was a Lady and my mother.”

“You-“ Thorin was struck dumb, unable to understand a single event that had occurred. “You- You lied to me?”

“I came here tonight merely to explain myself, sir, Thorin-“

“It is _Your Highness_ to you, madam.” He spat coldly, watching unforgivingly as she turned upon her glass slippers and fled. He ignored the murmurs of the crowd, he ignored Dìs’ protests or Kìli’s tears of rage as he bade his uncle go after her. No, he was finished.

* * *

She fled, her stockings ripped, Gandalf’s artwork a ruin, her mother’s wedding dress splattered in mud and covered in her shame. A delicate slipper had been left upon the steps of the palace, but what was the point now? She tried, and this was what happened. She should never have entertained Thorin, she should never have fallen in love, love was the luxury of those who could afford such a thing.

 

And so she sobbed bitterly, clutching her remaining slipper tight to her chest and collapsed in a pitiful pile on the threshold of the manor, Primula’s needlework and Drogo’s far-fetched schemes all for naught. She achieved nothing except the likelihood of the hangman’s noose. But the pain of losing him, the idea that Thorin held her in utmost contempt, _that_ cut more deeply than the possibility of the executioner’s blade.


End file.
